


Amethyst Made by Kind Hands

by PhoenixDiamond



Series: One-Shot Breek Requests [1]
Category: Trolls (2016)
Genre: Branch/Creek - Freeform, Breek, Fluff and Angst, Kissing, M/M, Mild Angst, Mild mention of character death, Mostly Fluff, Sweet
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-22
Updated: 2017-11-22
Packaged: 2019-02-05 12:29:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,373
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12794595
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PhoenixDiamond/pseuds/PhoenixDiamond
Summary: During a private visit to his mother's grave with Poppy, Creek tells his friend about how wonderful a troll his mother was and mentions something about an amethyst necklace she owned. It just so happens that Poppy isn't the only listening to the story. Except Branch overhears and decides to do something about it.





	Amethyst Made by Kind Hands

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Bluemoondreams](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bluemoondreams/gifts).



> Alright, here's number two. For Bluemoondreams who requests this fun one-shot. I hope it's what you wanted my dear. To you and everyone else who reads, please enjoy! Please excuse any of those silly mistakes.

 

**Amethyst Made by Kind Hands**

 

Creek crouches beneath the shade of a magnificent magnolia tree that sprawls tall and wide amongst the smaller ones, sticking out the way the most beautiful timber should. He’d planted here after all and it’s outgrown his expectations, bearing the most gorgeous Lily Magnolia blossoms to exist. The florist he purchased the seeds from twenty years ago had said it could grow in full or partial shade, but flowers best when in full sunlight.  

It’s that time of week again for him, visiting the grave sites of the trolls long past, but mostly, he visits for a singular troll; one he considers the most important, the most significant, the one who holds his heart dear and whose picture captured her sweetest essence. It stares back at him now, brilliantly colored, embossed with such exquisite craftsmanship and artistry, it’s difficult to stare at for too long.

At the time, he’d only been five years old, surrounded by his friends and associates at her funeral, but no family. She’d been the last of them to narrowly survive The Great Escape. But the journey, fatigue and illness stole her away before they could properly settle into their new home in Troll Village. But it’s fine now. Back then, Creek suffered terrible bouts of loneliness and anxiety and fear because without her tender care and nurturing, what would become of him? If it hadn’t been for the villagers, goodness knows where he’d be right now.

Creek bundles his ulster coat as a soft breeze blows through, chilling him to the bones. But there’s work to do. With pail and trowel in hand, he goes about digging away at the weeds surrounding the old, moss crusted tombstone with delicate care. The old graves keeper does a well enough job, but he’s grown tired and slower these days and is often absent minded of the tombs furthest out from the rest. What he doesn’t see is literally out of sight, out of mind. Not that Creek blames the old boy. Creek prefers to handle the business anyway. It makes him feel closer to his mother.

Sometimes, sometimes he senses her spirit, feels her presence around him, as if she’s bearing down on him the way a heavy rainstorm does to thirsty grass, or when sunshine finally cloaks a restless garden.

“I’m here, Creek!”

Creek chuckles, pulling the last of those bothersome dandelions away and rises to his feet. He’d invited Poppy. Goodness, he’d gotten so caught up in his work, he’d nearly forgotten. It’d never been his original plan to invite company since he preferred to keep this part of his life private, but her impudent insistence is difficult to ignore. She’s a sweet soul. He couldn’t deny her.

“Late as usual, love.” Creek holds out his hand for her to take and he pulls her near, looping an arm around her shoulders to block some of the wintry air.

“Better late than never,” she beams cheerily and it’s without a doubt now that he’s glad he asked her to come. He could use some of that uplifting energy. And those colors. He doesn’t think he’s ever seen her in neutrals. Doubtless she’ll ever consider the bland shades anyway.

The outfit’s design she sported now is appropriate for the mood, but the color scheme easily outdoes the sun. A dark burgundy flare skirt trench coat covers a long sleeve lacy canary yellow dress peeking through and around her ankles. And the hair ornaments were, well, very flowery.

He himself dressed to best suit the occasion. His black ulster coat covers a solid white collared tailored shirt, a charcoal plaid pattered vest and black dress slacks.

“I brought flowers,” she announces quietly, as if speaking above a whisper would suddenly wake the dead. Creek side glances the bouquet with a critical eye; a solid white arrangement. This design he recognizes; Remembrance, if he recollects. An exuberance of bright and beautiful white blossoms that provides an elegant way to deliver one’s expressions of sympathy and comfort. It combines white roses, snapdragons and Asiatic lilies accented by lush greens arranged in a matte, green glass gathering vase. An excellent choice.

He commends her appreciatively for making the right choice and extracts them from her waiting hands. “Thanks darling. They’ve lovely.” He places them to the side of the tomb, not waiting them blemished by the moss he still has to scrape away.

“You rarely talk about your mom, Creek,” Poppy softly comments and steps forward to rub a hand along the smooth curve of her tombstone. “Some of us thought you didn’t have family.”

Creek cocks an eyebrow at her. “I wouldn’t be here if my parents didn’t procreate, right?”

Poppy dully looks at him. “You know what I mean.”

“There’s hardly much to mention. My mother was the typical mothering type. She cared for me, taught me, raised me. She. . . she often sung to me too.” In that aspect, Creek could hardly call her average. The whole village back then knew who she was. “Lily Magnolia was one of kind.”

Poppy’s hands flew to her gaping mouth upon hearing the name. Her eyes sparkle with glee. “Oh Creek, your mother was Lily Magnolia? I had no idea. I heard so much about her. She’s who all the girl trolls want to grow up to be!”

Rubbing behind his head, Creek gazes longingly up at the overcast sky and sighs long and drained. “Yes,” he answers, a tight trace of emotion in his voice. “My beloved mother was that Lily Magnolia.”

Her soulful bars were indeed legend. There isn’t a troll around who doesn’t know of her or at least heard of her singing skills. She could penetrate the coldest hearts, raise the most downcast spirits and bring a spark of thrill through anyone who witnessed her jazzy singing. No one needs to tell him how great she was. Lily was glorious even without her voice, a warm, delightful, caring, beautiful troll. Creek feels blessed to look so much like her. The only thing he didn’t inherit from her, sadly, are her deep, stirring ability to carry those expressive tunes. He takes more after his father in that aspect, singing tenor, long range and soothing. He only knows that because of what she told him. His father was long gone before he’d been born, may his soul rest in peace.

“I think you’re really lucky,” Poppy says, snuggling into his side.

Creek looks down at the top of her head. “Because she could sing so well?”

“That too, but because you had a mother. I never knew mine. Dad never talks about her. I’ve seen her picture and found a necklace she owned, but they’re all I have.”

Creek snorts audibly. “Then you’re luckier then I. To have anything of your lost loved ones is the greatest fortune. I’ve only my mother’s amethyst, but even that’s lost to the winds now.” What he’d give to find it though. He doesn’t have pictures at home, an apron, nothing of his mother’s to remember. Coming to her tombstone is the only way he can see her.

Footsteps sound behind them at a distance, crunching over the fallen leaves and dying grass. The pair look over their shoulders following the noise to where Branch, looking—Creek blinks—remarkably handsome these days after mysteriously regaining his colors a couple months prior. No one’s been able to figure out how the once grey troll was able to revive his hope and happiness so suddenly, but it’s a grand change. And it solves the issue of wondering what his colors were. But that aside, Creek doesn’t believe he’s ever seen the other male troll in clothing outside of that forsaken leafy vest and patched trousers.

He was striding through the graveyard, wearing a conventional dark navy-blue suit with a red silk cravat tucked into the white button up. In his hand was a single purple rose and in the other, from what Creek could make out, is a homemade farewell card. It’s the first time Creek has seen Branch out here and he could chalk that up to being because Creek doesn’t visit on Wednesdays. He keeps his visits exclusively on the weekends. But it’s a strange discovery, finding out Branch has someone to mourn for.

No. No, that’s a very stupid thing to think. Of course he would. No one within the troll village doesn’t have at least one troll they miss.

“He looks so good in a suit,” Poppy compliments.

Creek’s opinion exactly. Branch looks more than good. He looks positively radiant.

Then he’s poked in the cheek to remind him that he has a witness to his gawking and he has the dignity to blush at being caught in the act. Creek clears his throat, eyes darting away to look at his mother’s grave. “Yes, anyway, I was saying?”

Poppy smirks knowingly after casting a short glance in Branch’s direction. “Your mom had an amethyst necklace or something?”

“Right, forgive me, I’m usually not so easily distracted.” Creek tries again to clear his throat, but it’s become dry since most of the saliva left to pile in his mouth like a dog panting for a bone. “Anyway, yes, my mother’s necklace. I, uh . . .” He really wants to look at Branch again. It’s almost becoming a bodily demand. He licks his lips, and says, “I lost it during our journey here. Back then when we’d been crossing the Pearl River. I think it was lost there. I tried going back years ago, but it’s no doubt fallen victim to weather and the likes.”

Poppy twists her lips and clucks her tongue in deep thought. “Do you remember what it looks like?” When she doesn’t receive a reply, Poppy is secretly amused to find Creek staring off at Branch again. “Ohhhh Creeeekkk?”

Creek starts and jerks his face back at her. “Yes, love?”

“The necklace?” She giggles. “What does it look like?”

“Oh, umm, let’s see.” Creek folds his arms, head tilted, thinking. “Goodness, the memories are vague. It was sort of a choker, made of beads and spider silk string. The amethyst was encased in gold plating, shaped like a heart and her name was inscribed on the back.” He chuckles a little here. “She kept my baby picture in it. Said it was to remind her how precious I was whenever she touched it.”

“Your memory’s not as bad as you thought, is it?”

Creek shrugs indifferently. “I don’t remember if the beads were made of walnut or pecans.”

Poppy playfully rolls her eyes. “Because we must be super anal.” Her eyes quickly, very quickly slip to the side. Creek would have ignored it the first three times she’d done it, but Poppy’s never been able to pretend she’s not up to something.

Creek looks behind him and every hair on his head feels like static has taken root and shot upward. His façade completely shatters, mouth slack and eyes wide because there’s no telling how long Branch has been standing behind him. So close, yet not enough to reach out and touch.

The two months he’s had his colors, they seem much shinnier and shimmery up close, or maybe that’s Creek’s imagination. His eyes are brighter, like a summer’s sky and all in all, he manages to overachieve the standards expected of a troll’s physique. His hair has grown taller sprouting in a stylish bluebell shape, softer in appearance. Creek strangely wants to see if it feels as soft as it looks. And has Branch always been this well-toned, this built? Or is it the way the suit is clinging to him like a jealous viper?

Branch nods at him and then Poppy, mouth curved just a little on the sides. Probably hasn’t mastered smiling just yet. That’ll be another discovery to look forward to—Good heavens listen to him! Creek needs to readjust his thoughts. He was in a graveyard checking out his rival for crying out loud.

And Branch has been talking to him, he realizes with horror because he’s suddenly found the old boy’s silvery freckles an intriguing delight to study.

“Beg your pardon?” Creek goes for an urbane tone, upturning his nose. “I apologize for my absentmindedness. We were in the middle of a private moment, after all.”

“My bad,” Branch says, pocketing his right hand as the other reaches up to scratch behind his head. “I said I saw you guys and thought I’d come over and say what’s up.” His eyes pointedly look towards the tombstone they were before and jerks his chin towards it expectantly.

“My mother,” Creek replies, then looks off in the direction he’d seen Branch walking. “You?”

“My grandma. . .  Guess we have something in common there. I thought you’d be one of the lucky ones.”

“No, not at all.” Creek quiets a moment, glancing elsewhere, then adds, “Congratulations on getting your colors. Blue,” he smirks, “I would’ve taken you for a red troll, maybe yellow.”

“Really?” Branch teasingly lifts a brow. “I thought you’d think of a jerkish shade, like pink or peach.”

“Hey!” Poppy pouts. “I resent that!”

Branch laughs, then centers his attention on Creek, gaze lingering and the purple troll feels slightly offset at the staring. “Well,” Branch starts, “I’d just wanted to offer my condolences for your lost. Sorry it happened.”

“Same to you, old chap,” Creek says, unblinking, soft. “Thank you, Branch.”

“No problem.” Tossing a two-finger salute, Branch turns on his heel, making his way back from which he came, stride smooth and confident. He’s changed so much in those two months. Amazing.

Creek looks after him until the teal blue troll is a speck in the distance. Curiously, he wonders out of thin air, “I wonder how long he stood behind me. Seems a little odd to stand there, not saying anything.”

Poppy, who casually shrugs, wears a grin threatening to split her face. “Long enough.”

It’d never been Branch’s intention to go towards the pair. He’d meant to mind his business, carry on as he normally does when he visits his grandma’s grave and then return home to finish foraging for supplies.

What on earth possessed him to go over, especially after knowing he was a nervous wreck when it comes to talking to Creek lately, he’ll never know. It just felt, well, right to do it and sure enough, he’d chosen the precise moment.

Creek has folded his arms, leaning his head towards the left whenever he needs to ponder. “Oh, umm, let’s see. . . Goodness, the memories are vague. It was sort of a choker, made of beads and spider silk string. The amethyst was encased in gold plating, shaped like a heart and her name was inscribed on the back.” His laughter’s always been musical. “She kept my baby picture in it. Said it was to remind her how precious I was whenever she touched it.”

Branch came up close enough to hear every detail described, putting each one to memory.

“Your memory’s not as bad as you thought, is it?” is what Poppy says.

Creek shrugs his shoulders ** _._** “I don’t remember if the beads were made of walnut or pecans.”

Poppy playfully rolls her eyes. “Because we must be super anal.” Her eyes quickly, very quickly slip to the side. Branch gestures for her to cut it out, but Poppy being Poppy can’t help being overly inspired to get involved. She’s likely caught on to his intentions and it’s wonder she didn’t squeal until her lungs popped. At his wink, she really couldn’t stop looking at him, which results in Creek finding him standing there like a creeper.

Well, at least he’d gained something out of it. Branch has been looking for a way to repay his affections towards Creek for two months. Little does the purple troll know, he’s the reason why Branch was able to renew his life again, to inspire to reevaluate his chances at living a happier, fulfilling life. No, he wasn’t entirely out of his old grey habits. The paranoia still ate at his nerves and he will forever been super cautious. But he practices them with purpose and care and pride. Protecting the village makes him happy. Interacting with the villagers makes him even happier he’d realized.

But above all, seeing Creek one day, being so kind and helpful to an elderly troll really made Branch happy. Call him a sucker for something so trivial, but his heart soared like a bird to the south when during a rainy summer, Branch had left the floral shop with his bag of seeds, umbrella pitched high over his head, when he’d noticed a slow-moving troll waddling through the storm. Branch had been prepared to offer his assistance until he saw Creek hurry over with his raincoat and umbrella, sacrificing both to the old troll, despite it being pointless because within minutes the elder was soaked through. It hadn’t mattered.

Strangely, if a jerk like Creek can show compassion for others, it meant he was capable of change. That meant Branch was as well. He didn’t need to always blame himself for his grandmother’s death. It was felt wonderful, that spark of feeling deep in his stomach, blooming like warm water and spreading. By the end of the night, he’d stared in the mirror and watched as a trembling glow engulfed him and he was back to his old self.

Since then, his appreciation for Creek had grown into a . . . well. . . a kind of deeper, meaningful affection for him. Not quite love, but scarily close to the term.

Now, he has a chance to show Creek what he means to him.

And what better way to go about then this?

Branch’s pace hurries with excited haste as he closes in on his home. He can’t wait to get started.

Clouds sailed languidly along the horizon, the earliest stars winking out as the moon rises in a corner.

Creek thought the view gorgeous from this high up. He stands here often, hand braced to the truck of the troll tree, eyes caught up in the magic of nature. No matter how frigid the temperatures get this time of year, he bears it to enjoy the scenery. A lot of the other trolls will have gone into their homes to get warmed up by their fires, with each other and here he wants to be grateful for the insignificant things.

He takes a sit, pulling at his brown bomber jacket, crosses his yellow clad legs and closes his eyes, centering his focus on all the surrounding energies. Everything, all of it, pulses with a beautiful life force. The auras are tampered with peace and ease.

It’s been almost two weeks since he’s seen Branch. Creek stopped pretending he hadn’t developed a fast attraction to the teal blue troll and accepts it for what it is. He’ll blame it on it being physical, but Branch’s aura has changed too. It wasn’t like anything as the others. His was different, travels and splits and spasms. Its erratic flow seems to only know how to flow through his body and it’s peculiar. Creek has only sensed energies like that coming from anger or chaotic emotions.

No such thing with Branch. His emotions were intact, but strong and tamed. There’s so much of it bottled inside him. So much untouched passion. Creek shivers and isn’t sure if it’s from the chill or from the prospect of feeling that energy brush against his own.

Speaking of powerful auras, Creek’s eyes prop open as he detects such a beautiful blend of magenta, logical tan, dark blue and . . . red. There’s so much it swirls and pulsates amongst the others, it causes Creek to surge up to his feet and hurriedly clamber down the tree in search of it. The emotions laced within it attract him like a moth to a swinging flame, enchanted by its sweet orb.

He’s brought to the edge of the village, the night’s darkness gradually taking away the light, but Creek would be able to see those collective colors in the pitch black. Creek finds its owner, half expecting it to be Branch and half still being surprised to see the teal blue troll there, feeling his heart pound with a mixture of excitement and wonder.

For Branch? Why. . . this attraction is something of a nuisance. Creek feels out of his element.

“Sup,” Branch murmurs after a long moment of silence.

“Hi,” Creek says, breathless and pouts at himself for sounding like that. “What are you doing here?”

“Yeah, guess it would be weird to see me in the village.”

“No, you’re here, at this hour,” Creek folds his arms, regarding him with suspicion.

“I was, uh,” and there he goes again with that hand scratching his head bit. He hesitates some more, then shrugs and frowns. “I was just out for a walk. What, I’m a grown troll. Can’t I enjoy a stroll every now and then?”

“In the evening, when creatures like to claim foolish trolls who think themselves invincible to harm?” Creek approaches the other skeptically, stopping in front him. “And half-dressed no less. You blooming idiot.” He scoffs, at Branch’s poor choice in attire; a simple thin red sweater and a pair of grey trousers. Creek shakes his head. “At least it isn’t that bloody vest and those disgusting britches. I have the right mind to burn those. Here.”

“I happen to like my vest, thank you very much!” Branch steps back when Creek starts to shrug out of his jacket. “Now wait, I don’t need your chivalry. Dude, come on, stop! I’m cool!”

“No kidding.” Creek drapes it over him anyway and steps back. It’s a smidge small on the teal blue troll, but it’ll do. Then his gaze skips to Branch’s hands, where they’d been balled around something the whole time. “What do you have there?”

“Ummmm,” Branch plays it out, lengthening the word, eyes curled up to the sky.

“Yes?”

“I may have made ya a lil’ somethin’ somethin’.”

Creek blinks rapidly, surprised. “Something for me?”

“Yeah!” Branch smiles—it’s an awkward crinkled one, but cute—and holds out his palmed hands. “I kind of overheard you telling Poppy about your, um, your mom’s necklace. How you lost it. So, I thought I’d. . .” he trails off as Creek cups his hands and the gift is gently placed in his grasp. “I know it’s not the same thing.”

Creek hadn’t heard much else of what Branch was saying, too enraptured by the necklace gleaming in his hold. It was absolutely stunning, all polished and perfectly forged. The design, it’s flawless form, all it was astounding down to the last detail. Even to the walnut beads he remembers were exactly what the beads were made of.

Creek feels his throat close, his tongue swelling as he shudders, cradling it over his chest. It’s the most wonderful, terrific gift anyone has ever given him.

“Do you like it? I didn’t mean for it to take so long to make, ya know? I thought about givin’ it to you for a Christmas present, but the holidays are some ways off and I thought you’d want it sooner—”

“Shut up.” Creek dons the necklace around his neck, shaking his head. “You silly troll. Has anyone ever told you, you talk entirely too much?”

“What?” Branch snaps, offended. “Usually a thanks is said to repay the effort. You know what? What was I thinkin’? ‘Course you’d be a jerk about it. Why did I bother to think you’d— _mmph!_ ”

Branch suddenly has his face grabbed and his mouth plundered with softness and wetness and—oh, oh that’s Creek tongue, isn’t it? Yeah, he can get with that and practically melts into it.

Slowly, his hands raise, as if nervous to believe this is happening and upon landing around Creek’s waist, realizing this isn’t a dream, Branch squeezes Creek to him and deepens the connection. He presses his tongue into Creek’s mouth, taking small comfort in the noise summoned from the sweep and glide he makes.

Creek reciprocates with an eagerness he’d never known he possessed and his arms wrap around Branch’s neck and he leans to the side so that they are able to perfectly align. The kiss burns in a sensual way and Branch dreamily sighs because it’s as sweet and moist as he imagined it would be.

Creek parts from him first, eyes glazed over and lips pinkened, meeting Branch’s gaze. For a moment, it looks like he would say something. Instead, he reaches up and cups Branch’s jaw, sweeping his thumb under his rounded chin, like someone entranced by art and its texture. The touch, has Branch subconsciously tightening his hold. Creek doesn’t need it to move in closer, resting his forehead against the other’s.

“Mmm that’s the kind of thanks I like,” purrs Branch.

“Thank you,” Creek says in the tiniest voice. “No one’s ever made me something so thoughtful.”

Branch looks a little between them, timid and blushing a bit. “You’re welcome. You deserve it.”

“And you deserve to be properly thanked.” Creek kisses his nose and squirms a bit to get out of their embrace. “I know an efficient way to start.” He takes Branch’s hand, leading them deeper into the village.

Branch blows out a foggy breath, frowning curiously. “Where are we goin’?”

“To get warm in my pod,” Creek says simply.

“You have a fire place?”

“And a rug made of my hair. Trust me, you’ll get to know it soon enough.”

 “I could get us some fire wood.”

Creek barks out a zesty laugh. “Oh pet, ever the thoughtful soul, but we won’t need it. There’s more ways than one to get a fire going.”

“How else?” Branch innocently asks, truly confused.

Creek grazes his fingers over the necklace’s smooth amethyst, sighing happily. Then he sends a wink over his shoulder. “You’ll see.” He plans to have plenty of fun showing Branch how it’s done.

The silly troll with such a compassionate heart. Who’d thought he could be so charming? Creek didn’t, but he knows now.

And Creek certainly plans to spend many days outside of tonight showing his gratitude.

 

 

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Alrighty Ardelia, darling you're next! If anyone makes a BREEK request, I'm thinking of turning these into a series. But please understand that my stories will take priority over requests. I'll get to them whenever I can, which hopefully won't be super long. :) Thanks for reading! <3


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